The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(119)

Something snaps deep inside of me. “It’s not my closet, Tristan,” I bark.

He pulls me into his arms. “But you like it . . . right?” I look around as I search for something nonbitchy to say.

I’ve got nothing.

The boys all scream in excitement as they look at the rest of the upstairs.

“I’m having this room,” Harry cries.

“I want this one!” Patrick yells.

“I can see the pool from mine.”

Tristan’s eyes search mine. “What do you think?”

“About what?” I snap.

“Do you like it? I think I’ll make an offer today.”

“An offer for what?”

“To buy it for us to live in—what else?”

I screw up my face at his presumption. “I don’t want to live here.”

“Why not?” His face falls. “It’s close to the boys’ new school. You, Fletch, and I all work in New York. There’s a yard for Muff and Woofy.” He smiles as he pulls me into his arms again. “It’s perfect for us.”

“I’m not moving, Tristan,” I insist. “I want to live in the house we are in.”

“Claire,” he says flatly, and I know he’s about to give me his hard-core sales pitch. I can already tell he’s made up his mind on this house, and when Tristan Miles decides he wants something, he doesn’t give up until he gets it.

I’m shutting this down right now.

“I’m not moving,” I snap. “End of story.” I pull away from him and storm downstairs and out to the car.

“How was it?” Michael smiles as I walk out onto the street.

“Lovely,” I reply.

“Can you see yourself living here?” He winks.

I glare at him as the last of my patience dissipates. “No. I can’t, actually.”

I get into the car and slam the door, and ten minutes later Tristan and the boys amble out of the house. I watch as he talks to Michael as the boys all listen, and then finally they get into the car.

The boys are all excited and talking about everything they have just seen.

Tristan gives me a sideways glance, annoyed with me.

“What?” I snap.

“Don’t give me what,” he growls as he pulls out into the street. “You didn’t even look at it.”

“I don’t have to. I’m not moving from my home in Long Island.”

“It’s too small for us.” He rolls his eyes, as if I’m an idiot, and my blood begins to boil.

“I want my boys to have room to have their friends over,” he asserts angrily.

Something snaps inside of me.

Wade had plans for his sons, and I can’t ignore them.

I won’t.

“They are Wade’s boys,” I bark. “You need to stop calling them your boys.”

The car falls deathly silent.

He narrows his eyes at me. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

I glare out the front windshield and cross my arms, too angry to form words.

“You do know, Claire . . . that when we get married—”

“If we get married,” I fume.

“I will be adopting the boys.”

“What?” I explode. I stare at him for a moment in utter shock . . . what the fuck? He wants to adopt them. “That’s not happening, Tristan.”

“What?” he screams.

“They already have a father,” I snap.

“I want them as my sons in the eyes of the law.”

“Well, you can’t fucking have them legally. You get to live with them—that’s enough.”

“Mom!” Fletcher cries from the back. “Stop it.”

Tristan’s eyes bulge from their sockets. His eyes flick between the road and me. “So you’re telling me I can care for them, I can love them, but I can’t ever call them my sons.”

“They have a father,” I repeat. “And they will remember and respect his wishes.”

“He’s fucking dead, Claire,” he barks. “And I won’t be punished because he’s gone. I want them legally to be my sons.”

I lose the last of my control. “It’s never fucking happening,” I splutter. “They are my and Wade’s sons. Not yours. They will never be yours. I told you to find someone else and have your own children—you can’t have Wade’s.”

He punches the steering wheel as he loses control, and we all jump. Patrick starts to cry.

“You’re scaring him.”

Tristan grips the steering wheel with white-knuckle force. His eyes fill with tears as he stares straight ahead.

Why did I say that?

Tears well in my eyes, and I angrily wipe them away.

We drive in silence the rest of the way, and he pulls into the driveway. He leaves the car going.

“Are you coming, Tris?” Harry whispers.

“No, buddy,” Tristan replies as he stares straight ahead. “I’ll call you later.”

“No, Tristan,” Patrick begs. “Please come in.” He begins to cry. “Don’t go.” He grabs him over the back of his seat as he begs him not to leave.

Tristan closes his eyes.